


Slatgjof

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Meira En Elskaði [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brief mentions of attempted suicide, First Time, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Not-Really-Old-Norse AU, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Ritual Sex, Size Difference, Thundershield - Freeform, Virgin Sacrifice, Virgin Steve Rogers, dubious consent but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old-Norse (kind of but not really) Thundershield AU:  The Æsir of Asgard are worshipped as gods by the mortals of earth, though it has been a long time since Thor's aid has been required. </p><p>The sole survivor of his family, left behind by his friends and of no use to his village of Hefnabjǫð, Stevaein Magri makes the decision to ask his gods for help. In offering to Thor, he means to give the only thing he has.</p><p>Unbeata-ed, mistakes are mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slatgjof

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Freely Given](https://archiveofourown.org/works/717466) by [Moiraine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moiraine/pseuds/Moiraine). 
  * Inspired by [Granted Power](https://archiveofourown.org/works/466086) by [vassalady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassalady/pseuds/vassalady). 



> I've recently started shipping thundershield enough to write some too – I only read it up until now so bear with me, this is probably awful. This is set in an ambiguous “ye olde” world, where Thor and Loki are still worshipped by the general population as Gods, and the MCU Avengers (plus Bucky) live in a small village called Hefnabjǫð together.
> 
> Please see end notes for the actual explanations of the names and words. For now, Steve is Steveain, Tony is Starkad, Bucky is Bjarnd, Natasha is Nattalegg, Clint is Klint, Jane is Jarne, and the temple looks a little like [this](http://www.monicabetancourt.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/9a9f80f2-825b-474d-9e69-92f095757aea_15-bg-indoor-pool2.jpg), except a little lighter and a little less enclosed.

Stevaein Magri was a good man. His spirit was strong and his heart was kind, he knew honour, recognised duty. But he was, in himself, weak and malnourished. His body had not grown to accommodate his spirit as it should, and his friends, though they loved him as much as he loved them, could not give him that which he desired most of all – the ability to fight beside them.

The first, fragile years of Stevaein's life had been terrifying for his mother – whose husband had been slain on the great plains by the Blackhearts before Stevaein had been old enough to recognise him. Josef had, by all accounts, been a good man.

And his wife raised her son to be the same.

But Stevaein's weaknesses, though he could not have changed them, frustrated him. He could read, and draw, but his body and health were frail. His limbs were little more than skin covered bone, his hair lank and his cheekbones sunken. His breaths came hard and rough, he could stomach only the simplest of meals and he fell often, consciousness stripped away by the cold or by fevers, or by the exhaustion of doing nothing.  
  
He hated it, and himself for it. There was little he could do to aid his friends, their village. He would eat, and his mother would tend him by their fire, but he could not feed the cattle or tend the herds except in the closest fields, in the warmest months. He could not slaughter or prepare their meals, nor fetch the wood to fuel the fire. He did nothing more than drain what others needed.

Seasons passed, and Stevaein's weakness angered him. One night, in a fit of recklessness brought on by months of frustration, Stevaein had run out into the snow without the furs he so often wore even during daylight, content to let the cold take him, to lift the burden from his mother's shoulders as well as those of the village. And, when the snow felled him, it was Raud Bjarnd who found him.

And when Stevaein woke to Bjarnd's scepticism - “you fool, Magri,” he'd whispered. “You're weak now but you'll kill your mother should you give yourself to the winter,” - Stevaein begrudgingly accepted his help, his aid. He listened to Bjarnd and learned from him, and their friendship grew, though Stevaein did not, until Stevaein had come to know all of Bjarnd's friends.

There was Nattalegg Svarta, with hair as red as the sunset and a temperament with as much volatility, though she never let it show except in battle. Her armour glinted obsidian in the sun, black against the white snow, and she was deadly without a moment's warning. Klint kalla Haukr fought with bolt and bow, ever unerring. His aim just as true as his heart , his wit just as biting as his arrowheads, and his eyes as sharp as any Hawk's, hence his name, he fought in armour coloured as the night sky. But, while Klint and Nattalegg were inseperable, as the closest siblings, it was Bjarnd whose luck and charm brought Nattalegg to his bed.

Starkad Völundrsson, the son of the blacksmith, had tried Stevaein's patience in the beginning. He fought in metal that glittered like blood and sunlight and, a master craftsman like his father, made no secret of his intelligence, nor the fact that the knowledge of most others whom he met could not compare to it.

Save, of course, for Braes Merki, whose alchemic knowledge was nigh on equal to Starkad's understanding and excellence in metalworking. The metal about Braes' shoulders was uncoloured, raw, but the gems of Alexandrite set into the armour glittered violet until the sun, bright in the heat of battle, made them shine like the finest emeralds – a property that had fascinated Braes and Starkad alike.

Stevaein had not been fitted for amour and, instead, wore his father's cloak, of a blue so close to grey that it might have been colourless

And then, one winter, when the cold bit at Stevaein's toes and fingers and the air burned the back of his throat, he woke alone. His mother had not returned to the bed they shared for warmth and the dogs were whining, crying in the darkness.

She always ate less, no matter how hungry she was, so that Stevaein would have more, took the time to make meals that were nourishing and hot, however exhausted she might be, so that he would have what he needed. He rose stiffly, awkwardly, his limbs long and thin, weaker than he had felt since the sun moved low and the darkness grew, to where the dogs were waiting by the remnants of the meagre meal she had prepared.

It was by them that he found her, serene as though in sleep though she would not wake, her skin as cold as the snow outside.

And it was as her body was covered by earth outside the village, Bjarnd's arm about his shoulders, Nattalegg's hand in his, the flames of the torches painting them all with colours Stevaein felt in his heart and his blood, that he thought bitterly, _perhaps she might have lived if I'd given myself to winter all that time ago._

And life moved on.

Stevaein still tried his best to match his friends in their skill. But, as the years passed and their training – though Stevaein's was less strenuous – progressed, it became clear that the gap between them would only widen.

Whatever rivalry had sparked between Stevaein and Starkad on their first meeting had given way to friendship, Braes' reticence faded and his warmth grew, Klint and Nattalegg told tales between them for Stevaein's amusement. But their training taught Stevaein, more than anything, that his friends were growing where he was not. Bjarnd's skill matched Nattalegg's, and they would often spar with each other. Klint's skill had always astounded any who saw it, but now the musculature in his arms gave him the means to let fly bigger bolts from stronger bows, to become the greatest archer Stevaein – and many others – had known. Braes' skills were deceptive. By far the smallest of them, aside from Stevaein, he was calm and gentle until angered, when he would wield his sword with skill and fury. Which was why he often trained with Starkad, whose skill was great and whose armour was superior, but whose ability to anger even the calmest of men was unmatched.   And, when the time came that Stevaein and those he knew reached their eighteenth years, those differences were greater still.

For his friends would be taken to battle in the spring. They, who had fought to defend the livestock and learned to sustain themselves, they would be invaluable. They, strong and tall and able to wear their armour, to lift their weapons, to run without stumbling, without their breath catching and failing them, they would be warriors.

Stevaein, if he were lucky, might find the strength to tend the cattle whose meat would be dried for their sustenance.

Bjarnd would try to console him, of course. He would train with Stevaein, aid him where he could, but it was no use. He could not change Stevaein's body, could not give him the strength to join his peers, even though Stevaein's spirit was easily the equal of his companions. But what could he offer, what could any of them offer, to the man whose soul held the strength and determination of a warrior while his body could hold nothing at all?

~

“I'm tired of this, Bucky,” Stevaein murmured one evening, when a fire crackled before them and Nattalegg and Starkad were 'hunting' Braes and Klint. They would leave soon enough, to travel to the edge of their lands so that they might make camp, to prepare for the fight they knew would come. The Blackhearts were on the move once more, and tomorrow Stevaein would be left behind while his friends went to defend the village. But, for now, with Stevaein swathed in furs, they sat side by side and drank beneath the stars. Stevaein's cup was full, but he barely partook of it. Bjarnd's stomach for mead and rich food was far beyond Stevaein's own. “I want to fight with you.”

“You would be better here,” Bjarnd answered.

“I would be better to be by your side,” Stevaein insisted. “And I mean to ask for aid from those who might afford it.”

Bjarnd turned to look at him. “I mean not to demean you,” he said, “but from whom can you seek such help? I know of no-”

“I spoke with Jarne,” Stevaein answered, “the priestess.”

Bjarnd's eyes widened before his brow furrowed. “The priestess?” he said. “Did she tell you to make sacrifice?”

Stevaein looked down, at where the snow clung to the hide of his shoes and the wrappings about his lower legs. “She did,” he said. “And I intend to.”

“Steve-”

“The gods are fair,” Stevaein answered, “as they have always been. And I intend to try my luck.”

“How, with the skin on your bones? The shoes on your feet?” he answered. “We mean to defend the village and our land, if you joined us you could be injured. Worse, you could be killed.”

“I know you think me incapable but-”

“This is no training, Steve, it's combat-” Bjarnd answered.

“I know it's combat-”

“Then why are you so keen to fight? There's so much to be done _here_ -”

“Here?” Stevaein answered. “What am I to do - herd sheep and milk cows and-”

“Yes!”

“-collect firewood from the forest?”

“Why not?”

“I refuse to sit by the fireside, Bucky-”

“I do not-”

“Bucky! These men lay down their lives. What right have I to do any less? This is what you fail to understand. This is about more than just my ability to fight.”

Bjarnd nodded. “Of course,” he said coldly. “What have you to prove, after all?”

Stevaein looked away, shook his head, and Bjarnd sighed softly.

“Bjarnd!” Nattalegg called from the treeline. “Are we to begin our journey?”

Bjarnd stood and turned to face her, his arms outstretched. “Yes we are,” he said, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

He turned to Stevaein and shook his head slowly, beginning to track through the snow towards Nattalegg. “Don't be a fool, Steve,” he said softly. “At least until I return?”

“How can I?” Stevaein answered. “You were always fool enough for both of us.”

Bjarnd walked the few steps back. “You are a simpleton,” he said fondly, embracing Stevaein.

“Oaf,” Stevaein responded, and Bjarnd pulled away from him. “Be careful.” And then, as an afterthought as Bjarnd's form retreated into the darkness of the night, “be sure to leave some sport for when I come to join you!”

Bjarnd turned, bowed to Stevaein, and turned away. “Come, Nattalegg,” Stevaein heard him say, “the game is already afoot.” And together their footsteps faded into silence in the fresh-fallen snow.

~

Jarne was a kind woman, young as Stevaein was young and experienced where he was not, and she greeted him on the steps of the temple wrapped in white fur, back amongst the pillars and the torches as though she had been waiting for him.  
  
 “Greetings,” she said with a warmth that was welcome in this cold. “You have considered the offer?”

“I have,” Stevaein answered, setting his jaw. “Though I have little to offer in return.”

Jarne smiled gently, carding her slender fingers through his hair and down to cradle his jaw where it was too sharp, the bone straining at the skin. “You are a kind man,” she answered, “and you have strength of heart. And he is a generous God. He would not harm you for asking, even should he refuse your request.”

Stevaein nodded, his mouth dry, and he did his best to hold her gaze as she examined him.

“Do you remember the terms?”

“I do,” Stevaein said.

“Then go,” she murmured. “The hour is late and the air is cold. Everything you should require is within.”

Stevaein nodded slowly, thanking her for her kindness before he pushed open the doors to the temple and stepped inside.

She did not follow him, leaving the doors to swing closed behind him with a noise befitting a storm, and then there was silence. In here, where the torches were lit, the world was different. Where the land outside was pale and gray and blue, covered by snow and surrounded by forest and mountain, the hall inside was huge, with pillars and steps that were white, bathed in orange by the torches. Aside from the whisper of the wind outside and the crackle of the torches, there was silence, and Stevaein's steps echoed as he moved toward the pool set deep into the floor.

Flowers floated on the surface, the only interruption, and they must have been left there long before, for the surface of the water was still, and smooth as glass. And there, beyond the other end of the pool, was the altar, and Thor's statue at the other end of the room.

Stevaein approached it as he removed his hood, passed by the pool and the altar to stand before it. White as the snow when the sun was high, the torchlight flickered over it now, and Stevaein had known what to expect, though it was still enough to stop him in his tracks.

The statue did not stand. Rather, it sat in a tastefully understated throne, as though watching the altar from afar, with its right leg extended, the left foot flat on the floor. The statue's left arm was extended too, slung over the arm of the chair as though carelessly, while the right was raised so that the elbow rested against the arm of the chair and two fingers pressed to its right temple.

Each muscle in his limbs and body clearly defined, Stevaein felt that it would not be so strange to touch them and find them warm and pliant, and the shaft that rose from beneath the small, coarse curls below Thor's navel stood proud, though thicker than Stevaein had expected – a symbol of Thor's fertility where the musculature showed his strength.

Aside from this, the statue's pose would give an air of disinterest, were it not for the absolute beauty carved into its face. The rendering was expert – Thor's face was handsome, beautiful, and to think that it had been carved by human hands seemed incredible, for Thor's statue did not seem lifeless nor disinterested. Instead, his expression was one of kindness, of fondness, as though he were waiting patiently to be shown wonders, as though he had sat still for years to see them and would sit still for years to come.

The small smile at the corners of his mouth warmed Stevaein's heart a little, the strong jaw and high cheekbones a comfort. But it was the statue's _eyes_ that were most captivating, that held Stevaein's gaze for longer than he intended so that, by the time he realized he stared, there had been utter silence for a long time.

Quickly, he glanced around himself to be sure that Jarne's assurances were well-founded. And he saw, at Thor's feet, two small flasks and a loaf of bread, by a chalice and a small, gold dish.

Moving with haste, so that his own nervousness did not hinder him or halt him completely, he fumbled at the clasps to his furs, and his belt, failing to catch it before it clattered to the ground. He winced at the noise in such a large, empty space, but tugged his tunic and undertunic over his head a moment later. He glanced at the statue, in some form of apology for the slightness of his body, but was arrested again by the look in its eyes. Stevaein had moved since he stared, since he had taken so long to gaze at it, but it seemed that wherever he stood the statue's eyes met his own.

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, Stevaein tugged his shoes from his feet and set them aside before unwinding the wrappings that circled his lower legs. These he coiled and set beside his shoes and then, taking a deep breath to steel himself, he untied the drawstring of his trousers and stepped out of them, placing them with the rest of his clothes.

He fought hard to meet the statue's gaze once he stood naked before it – he had never been much else but thin, and now, before such a beautifully sculpted figure, he felt more frail than he ever had. If Jarne were right, if he was lucky, then Thor's spirit would reside there now, and the thought of being seen so completely by a being so far above himself shamed him deeply.

Slowly, his joints still aching from the remembered cold though the air in the temple was warm, he sank to his knees before the statue to begin.

First, he kissed the floor before the statue's feet, and then kissed each of its feet in turn, his head bowed.  
 “I am Stevaein Magri, son of Josef and Sara,” he murmured. “I come to offer you sacrifice and prayer.”  
He uncorked the first flask, face heating when he found it to be oil – he had mistakenly uncorked the wrong flask, and so resealed it to uncork the second with shaking hands. “I bring you bread, and wine,” he said, hating the volume of his own voice though he did his best to speak softly. “That you may take sustenance.”

He decanted the wine into the chalice, set the bread in the dish, and put both before the statue's feet, his head bowed. And then he waited.

After the offering, he would sleep at the statue's feet in devotion and respect and if, when he woke, both the bread and wine were gone, Thor would have accepted his offering, would have made the choice to answer Stevaein's prayers. If they remained, Thor would have heard and deigned him unworthy.

Either way, come the morning, Stevaein would have his answer.

But, as he waited, the silence came up around him, like water in his ears, and he fought to keep his head down as the unnerving sensation that he should flee started to ebb into his limbs.

“I ask that I might be given the strength to fight beside my friends,” he said. “But I do not ask for that which is not due to me. If you see fit to let my hard work and training lead to strength, you will have my gratitude. If you deem me unworthy, you will have it still.”

Stevaein pushed himself up on unsteady hands and stood once more, careful to avert his eyes this time. Having made his offer, and if he had indeed been heard, and been deigned worthy of listening to, Thor would be closer than ever; the statue was a vessel, all knew it, and to look at it now could only be disrespectful.

“I cannot offer you coin, nor cattle,” he murmured, “and though I wish to, I cannot dedicate myself to your name in battle, nor win victory for you. I have nothing e-except m-myself.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, hating the tightness in his chest and the tremor in his hands. And then he lifted the small flask of oil from the floor and moved forward to kneel astride the statue's hips. The task was easy – the statue had been carved so that Thor's body was at ease, almost in repose, and kneeling astride him, astride it, not only made it difficult not to stare at its eyes but also made Stevaein painfully aware of just how small he was in comparison.

Thor was huge, a bigger man than any of them – not Stevaein or Bjarnd or Starkad, none of them – could hope ever to be. His shoulders were broader, his limbs longer and more powerful, and Stevaein could not help the warmth of arousal that bled down his spine as he pressed his hand to the ridges of the statue's stomach to better situate himself. This would undoubtedly be painful, although he had been told what to do to prepare his body, what sensation to expect. And if it brought Thor's favour upon him, even if his wish were not granted, he would endure it.

Once he was sure of himself, certain that he would not slip or topple, he poured a little of the oil onto his trembling fingertips, knelt up, and reached back. And then he hesitated.

If he stopped now, perhaps there would be no harm done. If he lost his nerve and left, apologising profusely, offering all the meals he would be given, all the clothing he could spare, perhaps he would be forgiven. But he knew, even as the thought crossed his mind, that he ate barely enough as it was, that he had no clothing to spare. Had he either, he would not be here now.

The first touch of his own oil-slick fingers was not new, nor unwelcome, but it made him gasp, made him sink his teeth into his lower lip in an effort to stay the sounds he knew would only echo in a hall such as this. His body responded immediately, conditioned to do so by years of taking pleasure in himself where no others would give him a second glance, the blood rushing downwards so that heat pooled low in his stomach.

He spent an age hoping to ease the tension in himself, stroking with slick fingertips, closing his eyes against the knowledge that he was alone with Thor's statue, against the huge hall and the smallness of his body. He imagined instead that he was alone, in his own bed, by his own fireside, with the warmth of his own furs. And it was with some relief that he breached himself with one finger, the smooth slide of it enough to make his breath catch, enough to make his length begin to fill and that, so he had been told, would be better. To give his own pleasure as well as his body would be a greater offering.

He wanted immediately, to hurry, as much as he knew he should not. Care should be taken with sacrifice, this he knew, but with every moment that passed, the silence roared in his ears, his breath burned in his lungs and the cool, hard marble beneath him only served to make it worse. Stevaein was alone now, save for Thor, and that thought was terrifying, mortifying. He knew his body was weak and frail and perhaps, were the statue to speak, he would not even be wanted. But he had to try.

The second finger _hurt_ , forcing sound from his lips, and it was loud in his ears, loud as it echoed of the stone and he stilled as the sting of it, the burning ache of it, travelled the length of his thighs, lanced up his spine. And that had been foolish – in trying to move faster, he'd made it so that he couldn't move at all, and he tried spreading his knees a little astride the statue.

The hiss through his teeth startled him almost as much as the pain, and that only made it worse. He froze, completely unable to think of what to do, though he wanted nothing more than to run.

It was worse than anything he had felt before – not the pain. The pain was nothing; Stevaein knew pain as he knew sickness – like an old friend. But the knowledge of his own fragility, the shame at his own actions and the humiliation at what actions he would have to complete, were near crippling. Though weak, Stevaein was proud, and he would not be the first to offer himself to Thor in this fashion. But Thor would be the first to whom Stevaein had offered himself.

Stevaein knew, too, that this was possible. He was not being asked to give something his body would not allow - Starkad, with Breas' grudging assent, had told him as much. But the idea that he, a small, frail mortal, should offer something so meagre to a _God_ – and one of Thor's power, no less – and expect that his needs be met in return struck him as coarse, lewd.

And yet, even as that thought occurred to him, there was a part of him left heavyhearted by the understanding that, in his eighteenth year, the only recipient of his body would be one who could not refuse it. Would Thor refuse him were the marble beneath his fingers turned to flesh? Selfish though it may have been, Stevaein had always hoped that someone might see him as Nattalegg saw Bjarnd, that someone might bed him because he was wanted, that he might be able to give himself, body and mind, to someone who might give their own in return. Love was hard to come by, but he had held that hope still. Until now.

Still, if his own body and his own pleasure were gifts enough, if he could give himself in the absence of animal or clothing, if he was the only thing of worth that he could give, then such a token as his chastity must surely count for more.

With one long breath, careful to move slowly and with care, he tried again to move. There was no lancing pain this time, though the ache remained, and the second finger was easier now, more familiar. Stevaein fought to keep the tension from his limbs, to concentrate on chasing the tendrils of pleasure instead of remembering the pain and, when the movement of his fingers came easy, slick and warm, he set about trying to spread his knees once more, that the marble thighs might better fit between his own.

It was a stretch for his slender limbs, the statue's musculature cool and hard though beautiful, but the burn that started at the juncture of his thigh and torso helped distract Stevaein from the lingering ache enough that his eyes fluttered closed.

He kept his breathing slow, thinking of the kind of honour this would be, the gift he was able to give. Never had he thought that loneliness might provide him with something of worth, something Bjarnd and Starkad with all their fame and money, could not offer. And then he felt heat in his cheeks at the thought of his friends, unease threatening to undo everything his cautiousness had brought him.

This was something he could do – something he _had_ to do. And giving in to mortal inclinations of what he wanted and did not want, in the face of higher instructions that had been so clearly set out, was not only unacceptable, not only verging on blasphemous, but it was also cowardice. And Stevaein was no coward.

The third finger was closer to pleasure than the other two had been, and it wasn't perfect, it wasn't what he would have chosen, but it was enough. It would have to be – if he waited much longer, he felt he might die from the fluttering of his heart in his chest, from the awful humiliation of it. Though no-one else could see him – save, if his luck held, Thor – it did not make him less ashamed.

Wincing at the sound his fingers made as he withdrew them, eyes closed against the emptiness of the hall and the itch at the back of his neck, to press his unsoiled hand to the ridges of the statue's stomach. By now the warmth from his own body had bled into the marble, and it was almost like touching skin, almost the same as the times he touched himself, the times he'd tended to the wounds of others.

And he drew a deep breath, fully prepared to move back, to bear the pain and impale himself, for lack of a better term.

And perhaps he might even have managed it, had hands far stronger than his own not _closed about his wrists_ so suddenly that he would have fallen, if those same hands had not held him perfectly still with enough force to break his bones if he resisted.

Stevaein's heart was racing, he didn't dare breathe, eyes still shut tight, but it was nothing compared to the twist in his stomach when a voice he did not know asked,

“What is _this_?”

~

It had been a long time, years that had stretched to decades and perhaps even centuries, since Thor had allowed himself to speak to a mortal in this fashion, since he had allowed his effigy to become his vessel. Longer since he had inhabited this one in particular, if only because its permanent state of arousal could be difficult to cope with should he be required for anything except to sate that desire. To fight, as he had been called on only once or twice before to do, proved far from easy if time was of the essence and he had first to dampen his arousal before he could dress for battle.

And perhaps his decision to inhabit it now had been unwise. The mortal who knelt astride him – small but attractive, even though he was desperately thin, with high cheekbones and wide, blue eyes that were closed tight now – froze completely, one thin-fingered hand against Thor's stomach with the other still behind him, both wrists in Thor's grasp.

Thor could feel the tremor in the mortal's body – Stevain, so he'd said – and loosened his grip a little to be less painful.

“Stevaein?”  
 Stevain flinched, and Thor could not fault him for it. As he understood it, statues did not often change to flesh. He certainly had not done so himself within what would be living mortal memory – Stevaein would not have been taught to expect it except perhaps in legends.

“Stevaein of Josef and Sara?” Thor asked again, and perhaps the mortal was unused to his language. Perhaps he spoke in words the little human could not understand, so long had it been. “Do you understand me?”

“Y-Yes, m-my-” Stevaein managed to stutter, before a gasp cut him short. “Oh, my- F-Forgi- Forgive me-”

Thor smiled gently, releasing his grip on the hand still pressed to his stomach to rest his palm against Stevaein's cheek. Stevaein flinched again but it was the only movement he gave, as though Thor's touch had burned but he dare not move away.

“What am I to forgive?” he asked, as kindly as he could. “You need not fear me so.”

Stevaein pressed his lips together until they were a thin, white line but, his head still turned away, bowed, he did not look at Thor. The tremors passed through his whole body now, his arousal having faded immediately, and Thor was tempted to question it, only refraining at the understanding that the mortal might not hear the affection in his teasing.

“Please,” Stevaein answered, little more than a whisper, curling in on himself a little more.

“Shh,” Thor soothed, moving his other hand to hold Stevaein's forearm instead, tilting his head to better see the mortal's face. “Be at ease, Stevaein, I meant no rebuke nor harm. I merely mean to keep you from harming yourself.”

Stevaein's eyelashes fluttered against his cheekbones, which were flushed scarlet in the torchlight.

“Yes,” Thor said slowly, “that is good; open your eyes, little human, look on me.”

Stevaein opened his eyes, turned his head towards Thor but did not lift it, so that he stared instead at his own hand where it rested on Thor's abdomen.

Thor felt the minute flex of Stevaein's fingers against his skin and smiled.

“Stevaein?” he said softly, and Stevaein's fingers stilled, as though he had not realized he made such movement, and feared rebuke. “Do you fear me?”

The tremors ceased immediately, Stevaein drawing a deep breath before he answered, his eyes still downcast. “I revere you,” he answered, his voice unwavering this time. “As is right.”

Thor eased his hand back from Stevaein's cheek to tuck his fingers beneath the sharp jaw instead, tilting his head up. It took a moment for Stevaein's gaze to follow, his long, pale lashes sweeping up slowly until his gaze met Thor's.

And then his beautiful eyes widened, his lips parting enticingly as he stared at Thor, his gaze roaming after a long few moments to take in Thor's face.

“You...” he whispered, his eyes finding Thor's once more. “You are so...beautiful.”

Thor smiled in amusement, raising one eyebrow. “You think me beautiful?” he murmured.

Slowly, Stevaein nodded, his hand lifting from Thor's stomach, lifting _almost_ to his face. And then Stevaein looked down once more, averting his gaze as he curled his hand into a loose fist against his thigh.

“Stevaein,” Thor murmured, and he felt the shiver that passed through the mortal body still astride his own. “I have heard your desires and I know what you offer me in return.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Stevaein answered.

“I feel I must tell you that what you ask for will be given-” Stevaein's head lifted at this, his eyes wide once more “- _but_ ,” Thor continued, “you need know that it will be none of my doing.”

Stevaein's confusion was as endearing as it was expected. “I-I don't understand,” he murmured, and Thor brushed the strands of hair from his forehead.

“Time is different for my kind,” he said. “I have great power, beyond human understanding. I watch centuries pass, and yet I can hold a moment for years as though both meant nothing. I have seen all you have been and all you will be, and know this - that the things that you have asked for are coming to you without my intervention. You will grow strong and tall, you will stand proud beside your friends. You will be a great warrior, Stevaein, and you need offer me nothing in return for it, for this is destined to you.”

Stevaein's mouth fell open at this, his body still though Thor knew, because he knew Stevaein, that his thoughts would be far from silent. “M-My Lord?” he whispered, and Thor smiled.

“You need offer me nothing,” Thor told him. “Your destiny already lies with your friends.”

Stevaein's head shook minutely. “But I...” he murmured, wetting his lips before he continued, “I have done nothing...”

“Nor need you,” Thor answered. “I ask nothing of you for you have need of nothing from me.”

Stevaein seemed suddenly to remember where he was, colour brushing his cheekbones as he became unsure, his gaze falling from Thor's once more. “Then...” he whispered, and Thor did not let him look away, keeping his hand at Stevaein's jaw once more.

“You are free to leave if you choose to do so,” Thor told him. “Though I would never turn you out if you chose to stay.”

Stevaein seemed to consider this for a long time, perhaps trying to understand, before his brow creased – in confusion or curiosity, Thor could not discern. “To...stay?”

“I know what you meant to offer me, Stevaein,” Thor answered. “Your innocence is precious.”

“It is all I have,” Stevaein answered, and Thor shook his head.

“It is worth far more than you know,” he answered. “And it is worth far more than others perceive.”

“I understand my worth,” Stevaein answered, his gaze steady this time as his voice rose. “I can offer nothing to my friends besides my company, I am of no use to our village. I have myself to offer and do so gladly-”

“Little one,” Thor said softly, stemming the flow of words before Stevaein's considerable spirit caused him, as Thor knew it often had, to see all but himself as worthy, “your gift is greater than anything else you might have offered me. Not only because it is is yours, and that which is of the highest worth to you, but because it is yourself – your very self – which you offer so freely.” Stevaein's cheeks coloured a little more but Thor continued, undeterred. “That others could not see it is of no importance to me. That others saw you and still saw past you is of no consequence to your worth.”

“My Lord-”

“Stevaein,” Thor interrupted, and Stevaein seemed admonished then, “I would have accepted your offer gladly, with enjoyment. And I would still. But the choice is yours, and I allow you to make it freely. Do you wish to go, now, to leave me and this temple, knowing that what you have asked for will come to you? Or do you wish to stay here with me, tonight, that I might show you the respect and adoration others have been too blind to give?”

Stevaein's eyes closed a little, his gaze raking Thor's body, and his body swayed towards Thor as though drawn to him, as though he weren't aware he had moved at all.

He wet his lips, just as unaware of that movement too, and his long lashes swept up for his gaze to meet Thor's once more, as Thor moved to cradle the back of Stevaein's head with his raised hand, drawing him forward.

Stevaein's breath was warm against his lips, coming short and fast as Thor turned his head.

“I-I wish to stay,” he gasped softly, and Thor smiled, easing his other palm over Stevain's shoulder to smooth it down his spine, to draw his body closer. “Please.”

“Then stay,” he answered, and kissed Stevaein softly.

Stevaein melted against him instantly, moaning gently into his mouth with a sound that belied his inexperience, his shock, and Thor stroked his back with one huge palm, trying to calm him. Stevaein was already trembling against him and his tentative fingers brushed Thor's stomach but did not stay.

“Stevaein,” Thor rumbled softly, drawing away to speak against Stevaein's lips, “touch if you wish to touch, I will not deny you. In fact, I would encourage you.”

Thor kissed him again, turning his head a little more to better fit their mouths together, and this time the brush of fingers changed until the pressure remained, Stevaein's slender fingers resting just above Thor's navel. It was not, by far, enough to stay Thor's desire for him, nor to ease the ache between his legs, but it was enough to begin with, considering Stevaein's evident apprehension.

Thor brushed his tongue along the seal of Stevaein's lips, parting them gently, and eased him closer, flexing his thighs beneath Stevaein's spread legs. Such was their difference in size that even this subtle movement shifted Stevaein's body as well as Thor's own, and Stevaein's breath hitched minutely, his spine bowing under Thor's hands, his hair soft under Thor's fingers.

“You would have injured yourself,” Thor said between kisses, nipping at Stevaein's lips and smiling when Stevaein made to follow the movement, chasing Thor's lips with his own each time and only responding more eagerly when they returned, “had I not stopped you.”

Stevaein gave no reply, content to follow where Thor led, but this could not last, could not be enough, and Thor drew away. Through instinct alone, Stevaein followed, leaning after him to close the distance between them, before he caught himself, understanding, to cast his eyes down.

Thor chuckled softly – tucking his fingers under Stevaein's chin once more to raise his head. “I wish to see your face, Stevaein,” he said and then, in jest, “would _you_ deny _me?”_

“N-No!” Stevaein whispered, and though he was too proud for fear, the expression he wore might be mistaken for it. “No, my Lord, I-”

“Ah, forgive my ill-placed humour,” Thor answered, taking sympathy, “I give you no rebuke. I mean only to look at you.” He drew his hands away from Stevaein's head and his back and instead settled both palms against Stevaein's prominent ribs, mindful of his narrow frame even as a shudder passed through him. “Let me look at you.”

Stevaein's body was thin, weak though Thor could feel the potential for strength within Stevaein's bones, and his skin was fair, pale. It would mark should Thor prove careless. It seemed thin, too, and would no doubt have torn if Thor had not stopped him before. But his lips were bright, swollen from the kisses Thor had bestowed upon them, and the similar colour that dusted his cheeks at first now painted them. Stevaein's stomach was flat, his length half-hard and impressive, especially for a man of his stature, and his thighs, barely thick as Thor's forearms, were soft and creamy against the tanned skin of Thor's own.

“You have touched yourself,” Thor told him, for he knew as much was true. At Stevaein's age, it would be almost peculiar if he had not, but if Thor had doubted it, then the way Stevaein wet his lips would have confirmed it anyway. “But none has touched you?”

“None to mean more than friendship,” Stevaein answered, holding his head up though the colour in his cheeks darkened and his legs hugged Thor's a moment, as though he would have shied away if he could have. “There are those who have tended me in my frequent sickness, those who have aided me when I have fallen.”

“But none,” Thor answered, sweeping his hand over the top of Stevaein's thigh and down between them, curling his fingers between Stevaein's legs – so far without intent; merely to touch, grazing soft, warm, sensitive skin as it grew heavier with need, “like this?”

Stevaein's brow furrowed a little as his eyes slipped closed, his breaths coming faster as the blush on his cheeks spread over his shoulders, and he gave a soft sound that caught in the back of his throat, shivering as the hair rose on his body – Thor could see the the sudden reaction on his skin, pleased by the responsiveness of it. It was something he was eager to see again. But there would be time for that.

“There,” Thor said softly, soothingly, lifting both hands this time to stroke the sides of Stevaein's torso, down and back, his thumbs almost meeting so big were his hands and so small Stevaein's body. Stevaein worried his lower lip with his teeth at the loss of the more intimate touch, even as his body moved into the slow stroke of Thor's palms, and Thor smiled at his unconscious eagerness. “So you are untouched in the most literal sense,” he said softly, drawing one hand back to drag the pad of his thumb over one of Stevaein's nipples.

Small and pale enough that the blue of the veins beneath showed through, the nipple darkened soon enough, hardened under the touch, and Thor knew he had not imagined the movement of Stevaein's body that it caused. Though it was small, barely there, the movement was purposeful – it pressed Stevaein's body a little further into Thor's hand, and Thor allowed it. He saw no reason to restrict it.

“You have been limited, then, to what you may enjoy alone,” he said, rolling that small, dark nipple under his thumb, delighting in the stuttered gasp such a simple touch rewarded him with. Already Stevaein's body strained towards him, head hanging forward as he twisted, and Thor smiled gently. “This is pleasing to you?” he murmured.

Stevaein hissed through his teeth, fingers curling into fists by his sides. “Yes,” he whispered, already returning to full hardness, “yes, please, I-I-”

“And you trust my judgement?” Thor asked.

Stevaein whined through his teeth this time, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, my Lord,” he gasped, and Thor smiled, drew his hands away.

“Then here,” he said, amused by the confused arousal on Stevaein's face as he let go to spread his arms - the unfocused nature of his gaze, the already swollen lower lip, the flush high on his cheekbones. “Come to me.”

For a long few moments, Stevaein appeared unsure, still where he knelt astride Thor with uncertainty in his bright, blue eyes. And then he moved forward hesitantly, bending at the waist to lay his chest against Thor's, to lay his head on Thor's shoulder, his face turned to Thor's neck.

He lay almost unnaturally still until Thor settled one palm between his shoulder blades, unsure until that moment that he had understood. And then, his hardness pressed tight between Thor's stomach and his own, he curled slender fingers against Thor's chest, waiting.

Thor gave him a few moments to adjust to his position, to understand what would be needed, what Thor would provide. And then, with his free hand, he plucked the still-uncorked flask from where it rested by his own hip – still there where Stevaein had left it – and lifted it.

“I will take you,” he murmured softly, smiling to himself at the gasp he received from those words alone, “and you must halt me if you are in discomfort, or pain, whether in your body or your mind. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Stevaein whispered against his skin. “I...Forgive me, I know not what to expect. I have...”

“Pleasure,” Thor answered, his voice like rolling thunder in his chest, and Stevaein gave another shiver against him. “All else will fade.”

Stevaein shifted minutely. “I know to...to expect pain,” he murmured, “this first time.”

Thor lowered his head enough to press a kiss to Stevaein's hair. “There need be no pain, little one,” he answered. “Rumour and inexperience give rise to such understanding.”

“Forgive-”

“I would, were there anything to forgive,” Thor assured him, finally stroking his other hand down to the small of Stevaein's back, so that his palm was flat, and his fingers pointed downward.

Stevaein, his small form already kneeling over Thor's lap, his upper body bent forward against Thor's own, was already opened to him sufficiently, and Thor spilled a little of the oil over his hand to coat the fingers, allowing a little more to trickle down over them.

Stevaein gasped as the first of it dripped down to meet his skin, near squirming from it until he recognised what it was, and then Thor set the flask down once more, pressing his lips to Stevaein's hair as he slid his fingers down.

The first touch was firm – Thor saw no reason to tease – a slow stroke with one slick fingertip over the entrance to Stevaein's body, and Stevaein held himself against Thor's chest with the smallest of sounds, turning his face against Thor's skin, his breath already hot.

Thor circled his fingertip slowly, enough that pleasure would overcome any discomfort, any peculiarity from the sensation, and Stevaein pressed himself closer to Thor's chest, spreading himself wider with the same movement. Thor took advantage, pressing only the tip of his finger inward, enough that he felt the muscle flutter before he withdrew to begin again.

Stevaein's fingers curled against his chest, blunt fingernails pressing into the skin, and Thor pushed his fingertip a little further this time only to withdraw it once more, to circle the ring of muscle with slow, easy movements. The next time he pressed inward, Stevaein made another sound, this one higher, curtailed midway through, and Thor rubbed his cheek against the top of Stevaein's head.

“Do not silence yourself,” Thor told told him. “I wish to hear you.”

This time, when he eased his fingertip forward, he did not stop, pressing it into Stevaein's body with one achingly slow movement. Stevaein held his breath, trying so valiantly to hold himself still that Thor could feel the tremor under his skin and, when Thor's knuckle rested against him, when Thor's first finger was sheathed inside him, Stevaein released the breath he had held in a rush of air only to gasp once, twice, a broken sound of pleasure curling upward from between lips Thor could feel were parted.

“This is pleasing to you?” Thor asked him, more to hear his voice now than to discern an answer – it was an answer he already knew.

“Yes,” Stevaein whispered, his voice tight with restraint, with pleasure held back through years of denial.

“Mmm,” Thor murmured, easing his finger back, delighted by the louder gasp of shock, the newest moan of pleasure, short though both were.

For a time, he allowed this much to suffice, easing his finger back and forth, the slow glide of oil-slick skin the only sound aside from the gasps Stevaein rewarded him with, until the movement became easy and the heat of Stevaein's body seemed to draw him in each time.

Already, moisture glittered down the length of Stevaein's spine, and Thor felt the wet warmth between them that spoke of Stevaein's arousal. “This is something you have done for yourself?” he asked, still easing his first finger back and forth, pressing against the tightness of Stevaein's body as he spoke, in preparation for the second.

“It was,” Stevaein gasped, “different then.”

“As it will be now,” Thor answered, drawing his first finger back enough, pressing enough against the muscle, that the second finger was nothing but a smooth slide of slick skin into tight heat.

Stevaein cried out softly, the sound breaking over another gasp as he pressed himself closer still, opening his body to Thor's fingers with a shiver that rocked him and bowed his spine. “Oh,” he breathed, pushing his forehead against Thor's shoulder.

Once more, Thor resumed the steady movement of his fingers, so that Stevaein's body would become accustomed to them without discomfort, and Stevaein moaned against his throat, his fingers shifting to hold Thor's shoulder.

Thor was grateful that something, whether advice or experience, had taught Stevaein that this would be necessary himself – though Thor's fingers were far wider than Stevaein's own, the preparation Stevaein had attempted himself made Thor's movements that much easier.

“I mean to give you more,” he said softly, and Stevaein whimpered in response. “I hope to be slow enough that you feel only enjoyment, but you must remember what I told you. You must stop me if you are in pain.”

“I...” Stevaein answered, the word little more than a breath. “Please...”

Thor eased his fingers inward to the knuckles once more, holding Stevaein open with his other hand and then, slowly, he spread his fingers.

Stevaein moaned, his hips flexing forward against Thor's stomach, and Thor might have stilled his hand then save for the fact that Stevaein eased his hips back again a moment later in a blatant invitation for him to continue.

Thor obliged him, spreading his fingers a little more, and a little more, until Stevaein made that same, small sound with every second breath, fingernails biting into the skin of Thor's shoulder.

With his other hand, Thor reached lower, stroking the skin to reach the spot inside him. He was grateful a moment later for his foresight in asking Stevaein to lie against him for, without it, the moment Stevaein's hips stuttered forward could have hurt him, and Thor wanted very much to avoid causing him pain.

Instead, Stevaein lifted his head against Thor's shoulder, breathing unsteadily against his jaw as Thor eased a third finger between the first two. Stevaein moaned again, his toes curling as his thighs hugged Thor's, beginning a small but definite rhythm with his hips, rutting almost imperceptibly against the muscles of Thor's stomach.

The movement did not last long – he stilled himself almost immediately – and Thor hummed against his hair, murmuring words that would mean nothing to Stevaein, words of ancient comfort and affection that he wouldn't understand the substance of, though the gist might be enough to soothe.

If Thor could not feel the desperate tension in Stevaein's body, he would have thought him unaffected, but he knew instead that Stevaein's stillness was not apathy but uncertainty.

“If you wish to move,” Thor told him, “to sate yourself, you may do so without anxiety. I intend to keep nothing from you if your body needs it.”

Stevaein squirmed against him as Thor flexed his fingers on their next slide inward, lips catching on Thor's skin as he turned his head, but he kept himself still.

“I,” he gasped softly, “b-but you-”

“I am a God,” Thor answered, “but I am not unused to the desires of mortal men. I am neither averse to the wants of their flesh, nor unaffected.”

With this, Thor eased his body upward just enough that he returned the shift of his skin against Stevaein's own, replicating that small movement it in some effort to prove that it was permitted.

“Be at ease,” Thor encouraged him. “Allow your body to take what it needs.”

And, slow but sure enough, that minute, rhythmic motion started once more.

“Is that not better?” Thor murmured, and Stevaein nodded against him, for long enough that Thor imagined he had forgotten how to stop.

And so Thor kissed his hair again, keeping the movements of his fingers slow, thorough, even as he spread them once more.

“A-Ah,” Stevaein moaned, his voice rising in pitch as Thor gave him a fourth finger, and he cut his sounds short once more as his spine bowed, so that his upper body curled up with stilted, shuddering movements while his hips snapped forward.

Now, Stevaein was clutching at Thor's shoulder, at his chest, pressing his face to Thor's skin and lifting it, as though his own body could not decide upon its own desires, and Thor eased his fingers deeper, if only to hear that sound again.

Stevaein began it openly, though he curtailed it once more soon enough, and Thor twisted his fingers as far as such an angle would allow, so that the next moan Stevaein breathed was unrestricted, and that the next movement his body gave was to seek further pleasure from Thor's fingers.

It was enough that Thor not only to consider him ready, and willing, but to bring forward his own desire, for it was considerable. He was far from uninterested from the moment Stevaein had entered the temple, and his decision to enter the statue had proven well worth the effort it took to manifest. Perhaps, it having been such a considerable endeavour, he ought to do so more often, to become accustomed to it.

But that was a thought for a different time, a problem to be considered later. Now, the mortal body against him demanded the attention of his own.

“Need you more?” Thor asked him, his words low in an effort to calm, to soothe – both Stevaein and himself.

“Take me,” Stevaein whispered, “please, _please_ take me...”

“Shh, little one,” Thor murmured, less to quiet him and more to ease his desperation. “We have all night, and I mean to take my time.”

Stevaein turned his face into Thor's throat, seeking to hide himself again, but Thor would not have it, would not allow him to feel shame where none was due, and withdrew his fingers from Stevaein's body. Stevaein gave a moan of bereavement, shifting as he pushed against Thor's chest to look down, but Thor only settled the still unoiled heels of his hands against Stevaein's shoulders to hold him fast.

He looked down himself, to look between them, at the length of Stevaein's hardness and the considerable patch of glittering moisture left on his own stomach by it. Stevaein made a soft choking sound, dropping one hand from Thor's shoulder immediately to cover it, to try and clean it away with his fingertips.

And Thor grasped Stevaein's wrist in his hand, ignoring the jolt of misguided surprise Stevaein's body gave, to lift Stevaein's hand to his mouth instead, curling his tongue around Stevaein's slender, glittering fingertips. Stevaein's mouth dropped open, his lashes fluttering low over his eyes as a gentle moan of want spilled past his lips. He made no other movement after this, and Thor smiled; though bitter, the taste of him was not unpleasant, and Thor continued, his eyes fixed on the frozen Stevaein.

When he was done, he kissed Stevaein, and Stevaein's spine bowed towards him as he did. Thor could almost taste Stevaein's gratitude as small, slender fingers clutched at his shoulders and Stevaein was gasping when they parted.

“Please,” Stevaein said once more, against Thor's lips as they broke for breath, and Thor nodded slowly, examining the young, mortal face and the desire etched upon it. “Please, I-”

“Set your hands on my shoulders,” he said softly, leaning forward to brush his cheek against Stevaein's for a moment, speaking the words into his ear. Stevaein did as he was told without hesitation, seemingly unable to disobey, as though incapable of anything but to follow Thor's word.

When Stevaein's grip was suitably firm, Thor stroked warm palms down his sides, under the curve of his buttocks to grasp the back of his thighs, and then he _lifted_.

Stevaein's weight was meagre in comparison to any other Thor could call to mind, but the gasp of shock he gave spoke of his inexperience, and he near pitched forward into Thor in surprise.

“Rest your weight on your knees, use my hands as your guidance.” Thor murmured. “Do you kneel?” And Stevaein nodded, settling high on his knees astride Thor's thighs. “Then tilt your hips downward,” Thor told him, and Stevaein did, slowly, hesitantly. “And remember what I told you. Be at ease, have no haste, and tell me should this pain you.”

Stevaein nodded, fingers tightening, and Thor reached down with one hand himself, to coat his length and hold himself steady. Then, with his other hand, he eased his grip on the back of Stevaein's thigh enough that the meaning of it was understood.

With some trepidation, Stevaein wet his lips and drew a deep breath before lowering himself slowly, flinching only a little at the first touch of Thor's length against him. Thor kept still, lest he harm Stevaein with unexpected movement, and Stevaein continued, achingly slowly, lowering himself in the smallest increments.

That, itself, made Thor smile. Stevaein had acted with haste before, ashamed of himself and his task, and that he took care to be thorough now meant that he obeyed Thor, that Thor's words had not gone unheard.

The pressure of the tip of his length against the entrance to Stevaein's body was heady to say the least, tantalizing and tempting even as he knew to restrain himself, but Stevaein did not stop and the moment his body gave way to Thor, he gasped in shock, muscle tight around the head of him, head tipping back as his eyes closed and his fingers curled on Thor's shoulders. “O-Oh,” he said softly, far from steadily, and Thor had to make a considerable effort to breathe.

Stevaein, pure and innocent, as virginal as he was inexperienced – which was to say, completely – was also nothing short of beautiful, and he paused, stopped himself and gave another gasp, the sound breaking as his muscles fluttered.

Thor bit back a groan of his own, at the heat and tightness of the body surrounding him heightening his senses. The head of Thor's length was sheathed, yes, but he was substantial in both length and girth – fitting for the God of fertility but occasionally a hindrance nonetheless – and Stevaein was slight, unaccustomed.

Stevaein, surprised but undaunted, continued soon enough, easing his body down as sweat began to break out on his forehead, hands grasping Thor's shoulders as tightly as his level of strength would allow as he slowly took Thor's length inside him. It took considerable effort – Thor could see as much in Stevaein's furrowed brow, bitten lip, closed eyes. He could feel it as the muscle in Stevaein's thighs flexed and tightened as he fought to keep his movements slow, as his fingers pulled and squeezed at Thor's shoulders.

When he reached the halfway point, his small chest was heaving enticingly, the sweat on his skin beginning to moisten the hair at his hairline, and Stevaein began to moan softly, muscles still fluttering around Thor's length.

“How fare you?” Thor asked, softly, steadying his voice because Stevaein would need him as an anchor.

Stevaein swallowed hard enough that Thor could hear it, mouth falling open a moment later as he hung his head. “You...” he breathed, spine rigid for a moment, jaw set, as he clenched around Thor once more, “...so...”

“Be at ease, little one,” Thor crooned, leaving go of his length to press his hand to Stevaein's lower stomach and the beginning of the soft, blonde curls that lay there, squeezing Stevaein's thigh with his other hand as he brushed a kiss over Stevaein's lips. Stevaein turned his head to try and follow it but could only gasp open-mouthed. “I am...” he paused as Stevaein tightened around him again, not trusting himself to speak clearly. “I am substantial to a man such as you, I know. If you cannot take me, this will suffice for-”

“No!” Stevaein gasped, eyes opening to stare at him. His irises were thin now, his gaze glassy and unfocussed. “Please, I...”

“Take as long as you require,” Thor answered, fully prepared to provide him whatever he should need. But Stevaein's arousal had not waned, his desperation was no less palpable, and Thor watched him carefully, each broken moan and hiss of not-quite pain accompanying an involuntary flutter of his muscles, an accidental twitch of his fingers, a twitch in his spine and a tremble in his thighs that was far from deliberate.

And then he tipped back his head, blonde hair falling out of his face to reveal the flush there, mouth hanging open as he gave a long, low moan and sank the remaining inches with just as much caution but far more enjoyment – that much was visible in the cant of his hips, the easing of the tension in the lines of his shoulders, the slackening of his mouth and the fluttering of his eyelashes.

“Good,” Thor crooned, his words long and soft, “you've done well.”

When Stevaein's thighs rested once more against Thor's, Thor seated fully inside him, Thor set both hands to Stevaein's thighs once more, ducking his head to kiss Stevaein's swollen lips. Stevaein moaned at him, holding himself deathly still until he could no longer, arms winding about Thor's neck.

“Please,” he whispered against Thor's lips when they parted, breaths fast and shallow though he sat still, body trembling though they only kissed, his body flushed and his voice unsteady though Thor had not even begun to show him the true pleasure that awaited him. “I...I cannot-”

“If you need to rest, or to halt,” Thor answered, “there shall come no retribution.”

Stevaein did not answer, only acquiescing when Thor kissed him again, his mouth slack so that his kisses were uncoordinated. Thor could feel the heat in his skin, the desperation in his body as he almost vibrated with anticipation. Or perhaps it was need.

“Tell me what you feel,” Thor murmured against Stevaein's mouth. “Does it hurt you?”  
  
 “Full,” Stevaein answered, in little more than a whisper, his eyes closed tight against it. “Full, I...oh...”

Thor ignored the oil on his fingers for the most part, but he swept the fingers of his right hand over his own thigh to clean them somewhat before he cradled the back of Stevaein's head. “You need not move until you are ready,” he murmured, “rest as long as you need; your body must become accustomed to mine.”

Stevaein nodded shakily, fingers twitching against Thor's skin, and Thor eased his palm down Stevaein's spine, easing his body forward again to hold him as he shivered, gasping, against Thor.

Stevaein made soft, desperate sounds, and Thor might have moved then, recognising it for want, need, but Stevaein's inexperience did not lie with others alone. Thor did not doubt that he had never felt before as he did at this moment, and to move him before he was ready, before his body was accustomed, was something Thor could not even consider. Such a small and gentle creature as this deserved to receive the same adoration he showed.

"I..." Stevaein gasped, his lips moving against Thor's skin though his voice was less strained, "I do not know..."

Thor stroked one palm down Stevaein's back, over and over as he pressed his lips to the top of Stevaein's head. "Are you in pain?"

Stevaein gave a soft sound before he replied. "No," he whispered. "N-No, I...No..."

Thor smiled, stroking Stevaein's thigh instead, where a tremor still shook him deep within. "Then I will guide you," he said, "look at me."

Stevaein did as he was asked, although slowly, pushing himself to sit upright with a stilted gasp, his gaze unfocused when it met Thor's own.

"I will move your body should you grow weary," Thor told him. "You will have your pleasure as I have mine." Stevaein's eyes fluttered closed a moment, as though even Thor's promise of pleasure were enough to incite it. "If you have not the strength to continue, but still wish to find your crisis, I will give it you. Do you understand?"

Stevaein nodded minutely, almost stock-still - and whether it was fear or restraint, Thor could not tell. Soon it would not matter.

"Until such time as you need me," Thor murmured, "and all you need do is ask, then I ask that you begin with your own strength, your own movements, that you set your own pace to ensure my eagerness does not harm you."

Stevaein nodded again, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Thor kissed him because it enticed him to do so, because he wanted to taste the need Stevaein showed so openly.

"As for _what_ your movements must be, that much is simple; kneel up and back here astride me, and move slowly. We have as long as you may need, _however_ long you need."

Stevaein nodded a third time, gaze dropping to Thor's chest through what looked like anxiousness, and Thor tucked gentle fingers beneath his chin. "You are beautiful," he said softly, "and, though the choice is yours, I would look at you as I have you."

For a moment, Stevaein did nothing, considering Thor's words and his own actions and then, slowly, he braced his hands on Thor's stomach and knelt up, easing his body upward again. 

Immediately, his mouth fell open on a silent cry, lashes fluttering down as his spine curled forward, his hair falling across his forehead. He gasped softly, and then was silent once more, holding his breath as he reached the peak of his movement. And, when he sank down again, his head fell back, brow furrowed in an expression that resembled pain. A shuddering rasp left his lips as he settled against Thor once more, body curling forward as he began again, pushing himself upward.

This time, his head rolled back, eyes shut tight against sensation, and his thighs hugged Thor's as he gasped again.

Thor settled both hands on Stevaein's thighs and, without opening his eyes, perhaps without even intending to at all, Stevaein took each of Thor's hands in his own and gripped them tightly. His stilted moan at the next peak,  head back and lips still parted, was lower this time, a sound from deeper within him, and Thor knew it for the first of true pleasure.

"None will know us," he murmured, "none outside we two can hear you, let me hear you," and, as though that request were floodgates opened, Stevaein gave a broken cry, beautiful in its wonder.

Stevaein's movements hastened soon enough, his body bowing and stretching with each sensation, shifting as his pleasure shifted, fingers tightening in Thor's palms as his body tightened around him, and Thor held back his pleasure to allow Stevaein to seek his own.

Though slender, there was a strength to Stevaein's mortal body that would someday match the strength of his spirit, and Thor would have told him as much but for the sudden jolt of want that surged through him as Stevaein's body tightened once more. He could not hold the movement of his hips for it happened before his mind could warn him, but Stevaein gave a louder cry this time, hands white-knuckled in Thor's.

Thor stilled instantly - had his unchecked movement caused pain? 

But Stevaein, this beautiful little mortal, did not pause or cease, did not hiss in pain. He _smiled_ , brow still furrowed, and groaned with such ease and such responsiveness that Thor knew he need check himself no longer. 

He began to meet Stevaein's movements in kind, although slowly at first, and Stevaein began to cry out at every peak, his expression a wonderful, untempered vision of the desperate need to fulfil himself, to reach his crisis. His movements might have turned frantic but for his own restraint, the way he held himself and slowed his own movements without a word from Thor, that Thor might follow him, match him. 

It was not long before he had slowed until he scarce moved at all, rocking astride Thor instead of kneeling up and falling back. Thor held him, leaving go of one hand to press his palm to the middle of Stevaein's back instead, supporting him. And Stevaein's eyes opened, dark and blue and clear above his flushed cheeks, his bitten lips.

"I," he whispered, his voice a breathless gasp, "am close, are...do you..."

And Thor smiled, watching in fascination as Stevaein smiled too, chest heaving as his eyes glittered. 

"Have your crisis," Thor answered honestly, already driven close to his own crisis by Stevaein's eagerness, "for it will give me mine." 

Stevain nodded, his breaths heavy, warm over Thor's skin, and then his smile faded, teeth bared in want and desperation, as he pushed himself up again. 

This time, Thor let go of his other hand to curl strong fingers about Stevaein's straining shaft, and Stevaein keened at him, body twisting back. Had Thor not supported his back, Stevaein might have fallen but, instead, one of Stevaein's hands stretched out to him, grasping at his shoulder as the other clenched around Thor's wrist where he matched Stevaein's rhythm stroke for stroke.

"Please!" he cried, body shaking, and Thor pulled him forward enough to bury his face against the pale skin of Stevaein's throat.

"Feel," he murmured, "feel us both, let it come."

And then Stevaein was crying out, voice sharp and loud, his head thrown back as his rhythm faltered, body arching as the wet warmth of his release coated Thor's fingers. And the quick, hard grasp of his body's climax drew the crisis from Thor just as strongly, dragging it from him with enough intensity to send his vision white.

Stevaein's cries fell both in volume and frequency from then, the tension ebbing from his body until, as Thor drew away to look at him, so Stevaein fell forward against him, a pliant warmth pressed to Thor's chest.

His fingers still twitched, his whole body wracked by tremors, but instead of mindless muttering or helpless moaning, he pressed kisses to Thor's skin, all that he could reach, until the last of the pleasure wrung the strength from his bones and he lay as still as his still-trembling body would allow.

Thor held him then, easing him through the last of it, soothing already-aching muscles as Stevaein clutched at him. Stevaein gasped quietly, fighting to regain control of himself, and Thor rested his cheek against the top of Stevaein's head as Stevaein turned his face to Thor's neck.

When he whispered, Thor thought himself mistaken. Surely Stevaein could not have spoken the words Thor perceived. But, a moment later, he spoke again, his voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"Thank you," he whispered, over and over with each breath, as though he had forgotten all else. "Thank you."

Thor moved enough to tilt Stevaein's face toward his own, and kissed him softly. "You need not thank me," Thor told him, his voice low and gentle, "when such was a gift _you_ gave to _me_."

Stevaein kissed him, still hesitant but less afraid, fingers curling against Thor's skin once more, just as they had before. But he did not have the strength to continue, breaking the kiss as his head fell forward, and so Thor kissed his cheek, his eye, his brow as Stevaein lowered his head to curl up against him.

"You must eat," Thor told him gently, "lest you wake tomorrow without the strength to leave this place."

"Yes," Stevaein said, the word slow and half-mumbled.

"Come," Thor told him, easing him up, and they both gave a gasp as Thor slipped from him, "you will sleep soon."

He moved Stevaein's body so that, instead of kneeling astride him, Stevaein was settled across his lap, a more comfortable way for him to lie now that pleasure would not dull the discomfort his previous position would cause.

And, holding him close with strength befitting his stature, Thor leaned forward, reached down to lift the bread and the wine from the floor by his feet, taking a draught of the wine for himself so that it would not spill when he rested it against his body. 

The bread he took, tore with his teeth, and then he dipped it into the wine and pressed it to Stevaein's lips. Stevaein's breaths were slower now, deeper, his eyes half-closed and his body slack, but he opened his mouth to Thor's fingers, the wine-soaked bread slipping past his lips. And his gaze, fixed on Thor's face, did not waver. 

He kept his eyes open, barely aware of himself at all as Thor fed him, scrap after scrap until the plate was empty and the cup near empty, too.

The last piece he pressed to Stevaein's lips, smiling as Stevaein's tongue darted out against Thor's skin, as Stevaein sucked at Thor's fingertips to follow the taste. Perhaps, some day, Thor might find a more selfish use for such a mouth but, for now, he licked away the drop of wine that spilled from the corner of Stevaein's lips, dragging it back with his tongue until they kissed.

Stevaein was half asleep, no longer speaking, but he used the last of his strength to breathe a sigh into Thor's mouth. And then he slept.

Thor smiled down at him, brushing the hair back off his forehead. So young, and so pure, and he had chosen to give himself to Thor. Thor could never have turned down such a gift.

Carefully, he wrapped Stevaein in the cloak that surrounded him. Come morning, Stevaein would leave. And Thor hoped, just a little, that he might one day return.

~

When Stevaein woke, as the cock crew, he did not know where he was. He yawned, brow furrowing and lifted one hand to rub at his eyes, frowning as he looked about himself.

 _The temple,_ he remembered. _Of course_

Wrapped about him was the stiff blue cloak he had worn when he entered this place the night before, and he sat up to see that his clothes were still on the floor by the statue's feet, two corked decanters and an empty chalice, a bare plate, sitting next to them.

He turned his head to look at the statue's face, remembering how Thor had smiled at him. And had it been a dream? 

Perhaps.

Smiling sadly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the statue's cold stone, in the center of its chest. "Thank you," he whispered, and then he pushed himself forward to stand, to dress. He took the chalice and the phials and the plate with him as he left, glancing over his shoulder with one last look at the statue of Thor, brushing the tips of his fingers against the back of the statue' hand. 

And then he left.

Jarne was waiting for him when he pushed the doors to the temple open, and he frowned at the length of his sleeves over his arms. Shorter than they should be, they were letting the cold in, and he resolved to go home quickly. He returned the items to Jarne when he stepped out into the snow, thanking her graciously for the use of them.  
  
"The plate and chalice are empty," she said and he nodded. Yes, he supposed, they were. But he did not answer her knowing smile with anything but a smile of his own, and set off, with the temple and his innocence behind him. 

He felt good, he decided, better than he had before. He felt surer of himself, better in his body, and the heat of Thor's touch - imagined or no - still lingered beneath his skin. Kindness and guidance and words Stevaein had longed to hear, a touch he'd longed to feel. Thor had held him and kissed him and given his body things Stevaein had thought never to feel and even if it had been nothing but a dream, it was one he would carry with him. One he believed to be a gift from Thor.

And if others looked at him on this morning and saw his smile wider, his spine straighter, then Stevaein cared not. Let them stare - they need not know the cause of his elation.

And, as he walked home, gathering his cloak around himself as tightly as he could, he wondered if the smile upon the face of Thor's statue looked quite as fond to anyone else. Certainly, Stevaein would remember it with more fondness than he ever had before.

Perhaps he might even see his way back to it one day.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Meira En Elskaði_ – meaning 'More than Loved'  
>  _Slatgjof_ – from the word _slat,_ meaning flesh, and _gjof_ , from the word for gift.
> 
> Many thanks to Batsy, Sconee, Joh and Sukkuido for helping me decide which part of which language-I-don't-speak was more pleasing to the eye, and to Em, who actually knows what she's talking about (unlike me) and helped me find a series title that actually made sense.
> 
> Partially inspired by 'Freely Given' by Moiraine, and 'Granted Power' by Vassalady. I haven't asked for permission to post this because I don't think it's needed - if you disagree, let me know, I'll be gracious and friendly about it :) Also I really _really_ wanted to use the Ritual Sex tag.
> 
>  _Hefnabjǫð_ \- from the words Hefna (Avenge) and Bjǫð (Land)
> 
>  **Steve – Stevaein Magri**  
>  _From Svaein (Merval, Södermanland, Sweden) and Magri (Skinny)_  
>  **Bucky – Raud Bjarnd** (Bear Red)  
>  _From Bjarndyr (bear) and Rauda (red)_  
>  **Tony – Starkad Völundrsson** (Starkad the son of the blacksmith)  
>  _From Starkad (Njal's Saga) and Volundr (blacksmith)_  
>  **Bruce – Braes Merki** (Braesi the Flag)  
>  _From Braesi (Malstra, Hälsingland, Sweden) and Merki (flag, or banner)_  
>  **Clint – Klint kalla Haukr** (Klint, called Hawk)  
>  _From Knut (Heimskringla) and Haukr (hawk)_  
>  **Natasha –Nattalegg Svartr** ('N' Spider Black)  
>  _From Atta and Leggr (eight and legs) and Svartr (black)_  
>  **Jane – Jarne Vitastjarna** (Jane Star-seer)  
>  _From Jarngerd (The Confederates), Vita (to know of) and Stjarna (stars)_
> 
> With **Thor,** _God of thunder, lightning, storms, oak trees, strength, the protection of mankind, hallowing, healing and fertility,_ (thank you, Wikipedia). 
> 
> The use of a statue to take one's virginity comes from a Roman practise – that the young women would first copulate with an anatomically correct statue of Mutunus Tutunus, a 'phallic marriage deity,' so that they had technically lost their virginity to the God before lying with a man, and so that they would be unafraid on their wedding night. Thor is the God of (amongst other things) strength and fertility. And crisis is an old word for orgasm.
> 
> I know this is a lot of notes. But if I manage to write the next part, all this will be way more relevant then. For those of you wondering about Alexandrite, I mean [this stuff](http://www.mineralminers.com/images/alexandrite/gems/alexandrite-gemstone.jpg)


End file.
